Innocence
by Lasgalendil
Summary: A father’s love. A family’s loss. A young man’s guilt and a friend’s betrayal. Unexpected forgiveness and an untimely death… The greatest love stories are never romance. Will and Jack. Events set during Curse of the Black Pearl and before.
1. Time t' Say Goodbye

**AN: W_hat if the most important scenes in Pirates...never made it to the screen?_**

**_Jack knew his father. His mother raised him by herself. And he has loved Elizabeth from the day they met. '_****She had the medallion…she's the right age.' Will is the son of Bootstrap Bill Turner. His only son. But did Bootstrap have a daughter as well? If so, what happened to her? And why was she never found?**

**A father's love. A family's loss. A young man's guilt and a friend's betrayal. Unexpected forgiveness, an untimely death…**

**Will and Jack. The greatest love stories are never romance. **

* * *

Bell tolls. Hour 'til midnight. Sky's dark, 'cept for a waxin' moon. Be another few days 'til she's full again. The watchman walks by again, sendin' a long, flitterin' shadow across me cell.

Chains clink. Whispered voices cry out, bones clank muted agains' the iron. They're whistlin' for that damn dog again. But it won't come. It'll never come. We face the gallows at dawn, thirty-seven o' us. Charged wi' Piracy …an' the like. Many o' these men I know. Served under me more 'an ten years ago when I still had the Pearl.

Mutinied against me. Left me to die. For ten years I've followed 'em, searched for 'em, thirstin' for vengeance until last week I tracked 'em down and killed their leader, me mutinous first mate…

An' in the morn', we all go to the same damn fate as Hector, meself included.

Hector. Goddamn Hector. Sittin' here, countin' hours until I hang, I can't help meself but think back on one of our final conversations…

"_I suppose I really should be thankin' you. If you hadn't mutinied and left me to die, I'd have equal share in this curse, same as you."_

_The apple is firm and ripe in my hand. I crunch into its taut skin, sweet juices running down into me beard. It's been 10 years since the Bastard has tasted nigh anything...an' apples were always his favorite. "__Funny ol' world, ain't it?"_

Funny?

Perhaps...if fun, like beauty, be in the eye of the beholder, an' not the bloke it's happenin' to.

But I stan' by what I said…if not the spirit I said it in. It's a funny ol' world, an ironic ol' world, a bitter world. Fate…has a strange way of workin'. O' sendin' our past back to haunt us…

Take meself, for instance. This be the second time I've sat behind these bars. The second time the son of me old friend Bill has stood here, promisin' to set me free, his dark eyes all wide an' insistent.

An' even now, jus' like the firs' time, I marvel he looks just like his da'. Shorter, perhaps, but with the same set of face and jaw, same hair, same lean, quiet strength-

The only diff'rence is in the eyes-earthen, wet, an' wide. But for those eyes, he looks _just like_ his da'. His da' what left me to die. Mutinied agains' me. Betrayed me.

I said the only diff'rence? And yet here he stands, sayin' it ain't right t' leave me. He'll find a way t' appeal, t' free me…I thought me old mate Bill Turner was a good man. Good pirate. But the son he hardly knew be ten times the man he e'er was.

I'd say if he were here now, he's be damn proud o' him, but it'd be a lie. If ol' Bill Turner could see his William now, he'd be ashamed.

Not o' the boy. O' himself.

He'd see what he missed, what he lef'. The son he bloody well orphaned, may as well have left t' die. He'd see what man this boy turned out t' be, and he'd shrink away, ashamed.

It's been little more 'an a fortnight since I knew the boy. A scrap, an escape, a rescue and revenge…everything in th' world's happened an' yet nothin's really changed. I'm back in bloody Port Royal, contemplatin' death the next morn, and the lass he loves more 'an life itself's all set an' ready t' marry another man.

The only diff'rence?

Hector Barbossa's dead, and the lass be safe. We did what we set out t' do. An' yet…

After ten years of plottin' me revenge, even the release o' vengeance can't assuage me the loss of me Pearl, me liberty, me life. Yet William stands before me, free an' whole, in a way stricken more so'an me…an' yet somehow it's enough for him t' know the lass is _safe_. He's either a bloody fool, or a good man. I know now t'was a lie to tell him he was well on his way to turning pirate himself. _Sprung a man from jail, sailed outta Tortuga wi' a Buckaneer crew…and completely obsessed wi' treasure…_His treasure ain't silver or gold. His treasure's a girl, what he's loved since the moment he met her, o'er eight years ago. He ain't a pirate. A true pirate cou' never jus' let another man walk away with what he wanted most in the world. He's either a fool, a bloody coward….or a damn good man.

Ne'er have met another like ol' Bill Turner's Will. An' even if I weren't dyin' tomorrow, I never will. He's a good man, a damn good man. An' you jus' don't find many o' those no more-

Bell rings. Half 'n hour 'til midnight. Executions begin a' dawn.

"T's late boy. You'd bes' be gettin' home." Ain't never been good a' goodbyes.

He's sittin', kneelin' on the damp an' dirty floor. His eyes be languid, bloodshot. "I won't leave you, Jack."

"Very considerate. And quite decen' o' you. However, as it's me last night, I've decided to spend it sleepin'. So dampen the torches, William, and try t' be quiet on your way out." I cross me legs, pullin' me hat down over me eyes.

"I will set you free." He says.

"t'aint worth it, son." It really ain't_. Take that bloody honor an' innocence o' yours, William Turner, an' steer clear o' pirates and pretty, heartless wenches like said governor's daughter what don't an' can't deserve you. You'd be a better man_. _An' God knows th' world needs more men like you…_

"We both committed the same crime. I was acquitted. Yet you are condemned." His hands turn white on the bars. "This isn't justice."

"You left out the part where I'd previously lived a life full o' crime, murder and plundering." I say disconcernedly from me perch on the ground, arms under me head and feet stretched out. "I think tha's the real reason behin' all this, William, t' tell the truth."

Silence.

"An' a certain Governor's daughter, who might possibly have had influence o'er both Governor and Commodore alike, savvy?"

"Jack-"

"Don't you 'Jack' me, boy. Wha's done, 's done."

"You…Regardless of how poorly this may have turned out…even if it had been otherwise…" His voice falters, an' he looks away. "I would still be greatly in your debt."

"You owe me nothin', boy." I say, shaking me head sternly, wrenchin' me hat off an' sittin' up. "I held up me end of our bargain, and deal's a deal. _I _helped you rescue your bonnie lass-an' she's safe, unless she's already gotten herself in more trouble-wouldn't doubt it-in which case you'll have to either leave it to the bloody Commodore or go this 'ne all by your onsie. And you sprung _me._ The accord's done. Le' it go."

"I will not stand aside when it is in my power to save someone unjustly accused. Especially-" His voice breaks an' he looks righ' in me eyes. "especially not someone I love. So don't ask me to step aside and do nothing. Don't ask me to watch you hang, Jack." He shakes his head. " I can't."

"Pirate's code!" I snap angrily. "What man falls behin' gets left behin'!" This bloody fool'll only get himself killed. Three weeks ago I was ready to trade his life for me Pearl. No longer. If I have one scrap of decency left, if I've learned one lesson from twelve miserable years of piracy, it's that a good deed is always worth doin'. Settin' those slaves down in Africa took me honor, me life, me career…Savin' Turner's lass-an' Turner himself-has cos' me freedom. Will cos' me life. _Just let me die, William Turner, in peace, knowing I've left somethin' behin' worth rememberin'_.

He smiles bitterly. "You have to be a pirate for the pirate's code to apply, Jack. And I-"

"I know, boy." I sigh, sittin' up straight and lookin' him square in th'eye. "You ain't no pirate. Or, better yet," I say, lookin' down at me hands."you're a pirate, but what the wors' bloody pirate I ever heard o'. Sprang a man from jail an' _brought 'im back,_ kidnapped a girl for the sake o' _safekeepin'_, wound up in Tortuga an' spent the night _alone_…an' for god's sakes, boy, you can't even hold down a bottle o' rum."

I look him in his eyes as that half-smile plays again on his face. "Bloody hell, William. An' your Commodore thought _I _was a terrible pirate."

"I guess he hadn't heard of me." But that smile don' reach his eyes. Thirteen years he's looked for his father, an' in me he's found the closes' thing t' the man himself...Perhaps more. He ain't prepared for me t' leave.

Hell, I ain't prepared for me t' leave. What kin you say t' that?

Silence.

Bell rings again. Midnight.

"Turner!" A sharp voice comes from the stone staircase.

His dark eyes find mine. "Time t' go, lad." I whisper. His hands shrink reluctantly back through the bars as he stands.

"Jack," He finally says, leanin' in closer to the bars.

I ain't never been good a' goodbyes. I turn away. I wan' none o' this. No tears, no drawn out farewells, no promises an' no regrets. _Time to say goodbye, William._ "Take care, boy."

His eyes dart nervously t' the stairs an' the waitin' watchman."They spotted the Pearl. Not two days from here."

Silence.

"Jack," He whispers urgently, "She's the fastest ship in the Caribbean...she could be here by morning-"

Me pulse quickens an' I shut him up. "I know what you're thinkin' boy, an' it won' work." The moon's bright outside, the free, salty air waftin' in with her light.

"Jack, if I can get you aboard-"

"Turner!" The voice from the staircase comes more insistent. We don' have much more time…

"An' what if I kin get aboard? An' then what? What happens? What happens t' you if your plan works, ey, boy? What happens t' _you,_ William?"

He's quiet for a long, long time.

I laugh bitterly and turn to face him. "You leave me an' the Pearl outta your plans, boy. It'll be the death of you." I warn. "That lass ain't going to leave the Commodore. What wi' a week aboard a pirate ship, no man'll take her now. She's got herself a decen' man and she ain't gonna risk tha'. She barely got you pardoned _once_. She won' try a secon' time-be too dangerous. You can't bloody well count on her again nor your damn Gov'nor."

"Jack-"

"You do this, boy, an' you've got nowhere t' go but the noose." I return fiercely.

His pale, tired face be inches from mine. "I will not be like my father. I will not abandon you." He finally whispers. "I have to try."

_Damn it, boy. I won' see you hang_! "You damn fool, there ain't nowhere for you t' go! You do this an' the hangman's jus' as like t' get two pairs of boots instea' o' one. Both o' us dead, understan'? _That's all that can come from this!"_

"TURNER!" A backwards glance an' he's crossed t' the stairs, still starin' a' me, bitin' his lips…He ain't no coward. He ain't no fool. He's a good, honest man. A damn good man.

"So be it." He turns back t' me at the foot o' the stairs, an' there be pain in his dark eyes. "At least my conscience will be clear."

"You're a fool, boy! A fool what's gonna get himself killed!" " He smiles sadly, an' he's gone. "_Boy! Boy!"_

"_Oi!_ _William!_" I shout after him. But it's t' late. He's gone.

Damn fool. Damn fool. Damn fool. I clang me head against the bars, staring out a' the empty staircase. But he's gone. Gone.

It's a funny ol' world, didn't I say? After all the wron' and vengeance and sin I've done, it's no _good _deed o' mine what goes unpunished. I save a girl from drownin…sent t' the noose. Save same girl from rape an' death…sent t' the noose. Take a boy in, foster 'im, be there for 'im in ways his worthless father should've been, his worthless father what left him as a lad to go off piratin'…learn against me will and better judgment to love the son o' an ol' friend almos' as me own…only t' live t' see the boy be sent t' the noose as well.

For me. Me own bloody fault. _. _I've jus' looked int' the eyes of a goddamn sacrificial lamb what bleated: _Then so be it…at least my conscience will be clear. _Innocence…takin' the place o' the guilty.

Piratin', plunderin', philanderin'…vengeance an' murder. I pace me cell, all thoughts o' composure forgott'n. Me sins 'ave never found me out. It's only what things are done in innocence what have marked me an' mine for damnation.

Funny ol' world, ain't it?

I was once Jonathan Edward Teague. Good man. Good sailor. Good captain. Haven't been Jonathan for years. I was worth savin', once upon a time…But no more. I was branded a pirate, an' in rage and bitterness I became one…_So damn you, Will Turner, and damn your bleeding conscience what gave me back mine. I'll not 'ave your blood on me hands. _

_T's best t' let me die, boy._ I sit back down, the coldness of the cell brick eating through me back as I stare up at the ceiling, towards what little hope I have o' Heav'n, me death before the waitin' gallows, and the open, free night sky o'er the Sea, over me Pearl…yet mostly I wonder about that damn, foolish boy makin' his way back to the smithy for what may be the las' time. _T's best t' let me die...best for both you and me alike. I've learned me lesson. But's far, far too late t' change. Even if you set me free, boy, I'll still an' only be the man I am. _

_I'll still be Capt'n Jack Sparrow_.

I hear a noise, and I start in spite meself. The boy?

I open me eyes, but it's only that damn mangy dog, winkin' at me, standin' tantalizin' and jus' out o' reach. _Jack Sparrow,_ I swear he drawls, drool an' keys hangin' from his open jaws.

"That's _Capt'n _Jack Sparrow to you, mongrel. Savvy?" I say.

_An' what's your tale, Captain? Why should I set you free?_

And wi' that, the mongrel lays down, head up, cockin' his ears as if t' listen. His bright eyes shine in the damp 'n dark, keys danglin' from his pantin' mouth, jus' inches outta reach…

_It's a long story, mate._ I say. _But I suppose we've got the time… _

Time is, when all's said an' done, all I got left. Gibbs went wi' the _Pearl_, and the boy is gone. If he's smart, he'll stay away, find himself a good girl an' settle down, maybe make one las' clumsy stand for his damn Elizabeth…an' Bootstrap's worse 'an dead. The only three men in th' world I'd count as friends…gone. Suddenly I laugh. It's a funny ol' world. An ironic ol' world. A bitter world. Even Hector-_bloody, constant, ruthless Hector-!_ is unable t' torment me.

You know you're goddamn, bloody alone on your deathbed when you don't even have _enemies_ t' keep you company.


	2. What for the Likes of Me

**AN: Jack knew his father. His mother raised him by herself. And he has loved Elizabeth from the day they met…**

…_**what if the most important scenes in the Pirates Trilogy never made it to the screen?**_

'**She had the medallion…she's the right age?' Will is the son of Bootstrap Bill Turner. His only son. But did Bootstrap have a daughter as well? If so, what happened to her? And why was she never found?**

**A father's love. A family's loss. A young man's guilt and a friend's betrayal. Unexpected forgiveness, an untimely death…**

**Jack and Will. The greatest love stories are never romance.**

* * *

"…An' then, they made me their chief."

Ironic, ain't it? How things kin change? Fortnight ago I was gonna live forever….an' now it be half pas' midnight, an' I go t' me death at dawn….Fortnight ago I was tellin' me story t' two lobsterbacks what didn't merit invitation t' a ceremony, about t' commandeer a ship….an' here I am, tellin' me story again, behin' bars.

But it's our las' night alive. So I entertains th' lads an' the guards alike wi' me life o' crime an' piracy. Many o' the details have been made up-seaturtles an' the like-but I've heard all th' stories, and I don't disappoint. I tell 'em scandalous intimacies wi' mermaids an' sirens, battles wi' sea beasts, sailin' roun' the world, sackin' Nassau (the highly edited, much proliferated an' exaggerated version, as it were), how I got me scars in that brothel in Singapore an' other….amorous excursions and th' like. I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, see, an' I weave a good yarn. Been practicin' for some time. T' get what you want when you're bloody broke in Tortuga, you've got t' be able t' impress…

_It be a month ago in Tortuga. Downstairs, in Tortuga, as it were. Not a bad place t' be…so long as you kin work your way up. Scarlet leans agains' me, gigglin' and soppin' rum down her front. She be well on her way to becomin' soddin' drunk…an' I be helpin' her out as best' I kin. _

"_Tell me 'bout yourself, Jack," She begs. "I've heard so many things…"_

"_An' what is it, love," I ask, takin' another swig o' rum an' starin' into her kohl-smeared eyes, "that you wan' t' know?"_

_She flirts teasin'ly back. "Oh, I scarcely know…s' tell me everything." _

"_Everything?" I slip me arm aroun' her. "Well, love, don't know if I kin, see? Whole lots of parts not fittin' what for a lady's delicate ears-"_

_She hiccoughs loudly an' snorts rum ou' her nose. "Well 'en, Mr. Sparrow-"_

"That'd be Capt'n Sparrow, love."

"_Alrighty then. Captain Sparrow. Perhaps we shou' go someplace what where we won' be….overheard?" She takes me han' in hers, an' leads me up th' stairs. Door scarcely shuts behin' us an' she's in me arms, an' I be grazin' up her neck wi' me lips. _

"_You want t' know me story?" I whisper right 'n her ear. "It's a dreadful long tale, love. What's in it? Well, whate'ver you like, really. There's adventure. An' treasure. Treasure as well…let me think…Revenge. Like a good revenge story? Good, good. An' romance. Aye. Romance like you would ne'er believe…Wha' else? Well there be escapes. An' murder. Chases on th' high seas…Aye, love. Sounds like a good story indeed… from th' beginning, then?"_

An' it's funny, what, how stories work. What stock we put in 'em. The same story what buys a man all the pleasurable comp'ny he could ever want in Tortuga be in itself enough t' condemn him here…

Some people try t' measure a man by his story. Where he's been, what he's done. Some place t' much stock in the beginnin'. Who you were born, where you were born. Like that damn funny-wigged Governor what's-his-face. I'm sure his Commodore's a good man…but I'm damn certain he'd ignore his merits too if he'd been born lowly like me boy William. He places too much trust in jus' the beginnin', the endin' be damned.

An' yet some people do jus' the opposite. Put t' much stock in th' endin'. How well a man died. What all he accomplished. I've been aroun' the globe an' I hear tell of ol' Alexander, weepin' cause there weren't no more lands t' conquer. What like that bloody Commodore, determined t' leave behin' him a legacy o' military service and eradication…Or this damn clergy, what be goin' around, offerin' to read an' pray for us, like as not. Offer forgiveness for our sins, a pardon in heav'n, as it were…as though a final repentance at th' end o' a lifetime o' guilt be worth a damn.

_One good deed does not pardon a life of wickedness._

An' yet regardless o' wha' a man does or how he ends… begins wi' bes' intentions or ends wi' deepest regrets…all men die. I don' suppose it really does matter nothin' wha' he dies wi' nor why, nor how… In th' end, we all be the same. Kings an' paupers…we go t' the grave as equals…

No, you can't measure a man, can' know him truly, wi' only seein' the beginnin' or th' end o' his life. You kin ignore 'em completely cause they tell you nothin'. It be the middle o' the story, intentions an' ambitions laid naked an' bare, what defines him.

An', like as not, condemns him.

_Pirate or not, this man saved my life…_That one good deed an' this lass be all what stood twixt me an' judgment. One good deed, what in her mind redeem me. Redemption. Fancy word, that. Interestin' concept, surely. An' far, far beyon' reach wha' for the likes o' me.

Cause th' opposite's true as well. Lifetime o' goodness an' charity ain' enough to pardon wha' I almos' done. Even if I had lived a good life, been a good man—man like me mate Will Turner—ain't no way in hell forty years o' goodness cou' e'er hope t' redeem me. An' sure as hell wha' poor show o' goodness I have t' me name coul' e'er be enough.

I spin me yarn for 'em, much like wha' I've done a hundre' times b'fore. They laugh an' snicker at parts, gasp an' reel a' others…I migh' smile, bu' me heart ain't in it. I be thinkin' o' a different story…An' that be the story I tell that damn dog in me head. What I tell t' you now.

It be quite diff'rent, though it be much the same story, filled what wi' adventure, treasure, murder, chases on th' high seas, an' amorous excursions…but ain't nothin' entertainin' nor divertin' abou' it ….Be a darker story. Filled what wi' obsession, fear, betrayal an' guilt. Filled wi' damnation.

Bu' mostly, it be different cause it be a _true_ story. One ain't no good man cou' ever be proud o'.

Not even one what calls himself Capt'n Jack Sparrow.


	3. Overture

**AN: Jack knew his father. His mother raised him by herself. And he has loved Elizabeth from the day they met…**

…_**what if the most important scenes in the Pirates Trilogy never made it to the screen?**_

'**She had the medallion…she's the right age?' Will is the son of Bootstrap Bill Turner. His only son. But did Bootstrap have a daughter as well? If so, what happened to her? And why was she never found?**

**A father's love. A family's loss. A young man's guilt and a friend's betrayal. Unexpected forgiveness, an untimely death…**

**Jack and Will. The greatest love stories are never romance**

**

* * *

**

They say what a dyin' man sees his life before his eyes.

But they don't say how… So I'll tell you a secret. It don' work like you migh' expect. It don' play out from beginnin' t' end, nor end t' beginnin'. It goes back an' forth, it links together, an' it sways in dancin' circles an' sudden rushes, years an' distances cross in seconds, an' some simple scenes seem t' take hours…. It plays like music, fine, proper music, not a fiddle 'n drum onboard deck, but a skilled orchestra, the likes what would play for merry ol' George back in England.

A melody an' harmony, repeatin' chords an' strands, constant, intricate, ever-changin' motifs…

An' that music started years an' years ago now. Started wi' nothin' more'an parchment, ink, an' a fierce desire t' be me own man, t' not be known as Pirate like me father, ironic'ly enough. Same as damn William…

But I already told you, it ain't the beginnin'-the good intentions, nor the endin'-in victory nor regrets-what defines a man.

It be the middle what damns him.

The music's playin' now. A bright, brazen brass overture. It's May twelf', 1721. I stan' on the docks o' Bristol, England. I've jus' got commissioned by the East India Tradin' Comp'ny. I am twenty-two, Capt'n, an' owner of _The Wicked Wench_ what I inherited from a relative-o' the best sort: Distant. Rich…an' Dead. She's a beautiful ship, fraught wi' black sails, cuts across waves light an' quick, as though glidin' over rather 'an through the water, as easy to control an' as dainty as a prancin' mare. The unexpectedness, the profit, an' the beauty o' me new inheritance be like findin' a very agreeable and advantageous marriage-not that I'd be one for that either then or now. But she be beautiful, an' she'll bring me a fortune. The afternoon sun shines behin' her, silhoutin' her in the horizon. _Well, m'lady_, I think t' meself. _We've got quite a journey ahead o' us. _

Only too right, I was.

This new commission runnin' spices 'tween the Indies, Englan' and the New World'll bring me ship and crew nearly 100,000 pounds per annum. I pull out the oilskin pouch out o' me pocket again, lightly unfoldin' the parchment jus' t' make sure I ain't dreamin'.

This document certifies that one Jonathan Edward Teague, Captain and owner of ship The Wicked Wench, has hereby full and complete employment, protection, and coverage by Her Majesty's Fleet and Pride East India Trading Company. Voyages shall be backed by private investors in addition to replacement costs for goods and services rendered to the East India Trading Company. The ship The Wicked Wench shall be henceforward referred to as Her Majesty's Ship The Wicked Wench, all port tariff and tax will be paid by the Company, considered exemption, or reimbursed on completion of voyage…binding contract entitles the owner and crew of Her Majesty's Ship the Wicked Wench to a collective, annual sum not below 100,000 pounds for services rendered to Company, Queen, and Country…

T's damn good money. A hell o' a lot more'an you kin make on your own, workin' privately. I've got backers an' stock an' more investors 'an you kin count. Give me a chance t' make a name for meself. A name what's clean an' decent an' respectable. A name not associated wi' me father: Capt'n Teague. A want'd man. A known Pirate.

Can't go by Capt'n Teague-that's me goddamn, worthless father. An' I never really cared much for Jonathan. An' I'd rather be a sailor's whore than go by bleedin' _Edward…_So I'm Jack. Capt'n Jack, as it were…an' I've got me ship an' me commission. Ain't nothin' kin stop me from redeemin' me name. I figure ten years o' service t' the Comp'ny, an' I kin retire as Capt'n _Teague_, redeem me family name, an' no one'll give a damn. Keep _the Wench,_ hire another Capt'n, an' work wi' the books as owner for the res' o' me natural life…

It's a funny ol' world, Dog. How despite our bes' intentions, things kin an' always change.

That overture's changed now. Same melody, different key. It's dark an' minor, despairing, fiery an' cold all at the same time….It's February 28th, 1727. I wake in a cell not unlike this 'ne, retching, miserable, an' cold. Me arm's still burning, the dead, blackened skin pealin' away. I breathe through me teeth, hissin' in pain, holdin' it out t' see it proper. Righ' now it's indistinguishable-not more 'an a festerin' hole in me flesh. But give it some time, few weeks, and the flesh'll start to regrow 'round it. And it'll be P. P for Pirate. A scar what I've seen many times on th' arms of those sentenced t' death.

P for Pirate. Courtesy o' the East India Tradin' Company. Courtesy of Cutler Beckett. Courtesy o' me own damn compassion….

T's all dark, moonlight comes streamin' in through the bars. I stan' and stagger drunkenly t' the window. _The Wench_ is sittin' in the harbor, slowly smokin' an' sinkin'. Takes quite some time for a wooden ship t' fill up wi' water. Takes hours an' hours. I watch her go, anger an' sorrow alike burnin' in me heart. I'll never touch her smooth, oiled wheel again. Never look up t' her billowin', black sails furled full an' strong wi' the tradin' winds, never feel her gentle lilt over even the toughest o' passages, clearin' the waves as though ridin' on glass…

I'll never pilot me beloved ship again. Me hands are tight on the bars, tight an' white knuckled like William's were not an' hour ago. I won't ever pilot me ship again. Won't ever pilot no ship ever again. Not wi' this damn scar.

In fact, it's that same damn scar what gets me in trouble here in Port Royal…in a way, it's this same damn scar, same damn _crime_ I committed nigh thirteen years ago what lost me t_he Wench_, what would lose me t_he Pearl_, what at dawn will lose me life….

It's an ironic ol' world. A bitter world. It's never me sins what find me out. I betray the son o' a friend, nigh t' his death. A boy what I should've protected an' loved like a father. A boy what kissed me cheek on the docks o' Bristol as a weepin' lad nigh twenty years ago at the dawn o' t_he Wench's_ first voyage, held tight in Nancy Turner's arms, beggin' for his father not t' go…This same innocent, wide-eyed boy, mild an' gentle an' I mean t' trade his life for a _ship. _A deed what done even Iscariot proud…

Yet it ain't this black, cancerous sin what condemns me. If all the world is truly a stage, then in the end me life be not but a comedy or farce 'cause I'm charged wi' a much different crime:

Compassion.


	4. Even one good man

**AN: Jack knew his father. His mother raised him by herself. And he has loved Elizabeth from the day they met…**

…_**what if the most important scenes in the Pirates Trilogy never made it to the screen?**_

'**She had the medallion…she's the right age?' Will is the son of Bootstrap Bill Turner. His only son. But did Bootstrap have a daughter as well? If so, what happened to her? And why was she never found?**

**A father's love. A family's loss. A young man's guilt and a friend's betrayal. Unexpected forgiveness, an untimely death…**

**Jack and Will. The greatest love stories are never romance.**

**

* * *

**

November 3rd, 1726. Two days out o' port, bound 'cross the Atlantic for Portugese holds in the New World. Seems there be a need for Nubians t' work the sugar fields…

Ain't never had slaves aboard before. _The Wench_ ain't no slaver's freighter. There be plenty o' other ships in this sea what to take these damn Nubians t' market. The smell of piss an' nightsoil permeates the air, the stench o' sweat an' blood hang stagnant an' ominous. Groans, hurried whispers, frightened shrieks an' loud curses kin be heard from below, an' the grunts o' a big fellow, pantin' like a dying bull, tied t' a makeshift whippin' post up here on deck.

Sometimes the big fellows like t' make trouble. Some are suicidal-prefer death t' another hour of the hell that waits in the darkness below deck. Others…jus' want a look a' the sun, she if she indeed be still shinin'…

That Mercer's been a' it for nigh quarter o' an hour, but this man won' cry out. I be standin' at the helm, an' his angry black eyes bore int' mine as guilt an' bile rise in me throat. Hot tears pour down his dirty, sweat soaked face, but he won' make a sound.

He be hangin' ont' the only pride what he got left.

Even animals don' deserve this. Even a tamer o' horses knows enough t' respect courage when he sees it. A stallion mus' be broken, true, but you do it wi' respect an' regret. You don' starve him, whip him, beat him jus' for pleasure…

Another lash falls, the sickly sound o' rendin' flesh. It tear off his emaciated, bony ribs, an' he grunts again. Some o' me crew be jeerin' him, snappin' their fingers, shoutin' darkie, Negro, monkey…

Behin' me, me mate Bill be mendin' a sail.

"Ain't right," I mutter t' meself. Since when did the color o' a man's skin make him any less a man? It be th' color o' a man's heart-white or black-what defines 'im. Any man cou' tell you that, knows it innately…jus' cause a wench be pretty don't mean she be worth a thing. T'ain't the outside what count…

I stan' here, a Captain an' yet a prisoner, bound t' me word t' carry 'Company Cargo' t' the next port…an' yet it don't take a man what was raised by darker mum t' see th' terrible irony playin' out on me deck. I see two men, one a master an' one a slave, an' it be clear t' me who be teachin' who about savagery.

"Then put an end t' it, Jack." Bill says lowly.

"Yeah," I ask, "An' how? I gots t' carry whatever damn cargo they lay on me. I wouldn't t' chose this, mate. You know me. I don' go in for this." So I stan' idly by, watchin' the cruelties an' unspeakable ferocity what goes int' tamin' a rogue slave. Ain't right.

"You gave your word you'd deliver the cargo," Bill says, not lookin' me in th' eye. At the momen', I don't think he kin. He's disgusted, disgusted jus' as much as I…maybe more. An' he's got as much right t' be disgusted wi' me as them. "Nothing's down in that contract about deliverin'…_damaged goods_."

He be right. "Oi! You there, Mercer!" I shout, comin' down the steps. "What the hell you be doin'?"

He stops midswing, arm raised up behin' his head. "Stay outta this."

"Stay outta it? _Stay outta it?_" I say angrily, wrestin' the whip from his grasp an' tossin' it overboard. "If I be deliverin' china an' you be chippin' it, I'd bleedin' tell you t' stop! It be me ship, me cargo, me profit on th' line. Lay another 'and on him an' it'll be you what tastes a lashin' next."

He smiles dangerously. "It be Company Cargo, Mr. Teague."

"It be me ship, an' it's _Capt'n_ Teague, you bugger. Lay another 'and on me cargo an' I'll have you in th' brig."

"You be charged with the Company's Cargo, _Captain_ Teague. You've no authority nor jurisdiction-"

"An' I be charged what wi' deliverin' the bleedin' _Company's _Cargo in a safe fashion, what t' make _Company _profits highest. No 'ne's gonna pay a cent for a slave half-beaten t' death, nor a dead 'ne a' that. So I'm warnin' you. Stay away from me cargo. Keep your 'ands and whips off th' men, an' if I ketch you or any of your bleedin' Company lads wi' your 'ands on th' women e'er again…" Me barred teeth be inches from his cool an' composed face, "I'll teach 'im a lesson or two abou'…_damaged goods_, savvy?"

"Mr. Turner!" I shout behin' me, me eyes never leavin' Mercer's masked, emotionless face.

"Aye, Capt'n?" Bill says, standin' slowly.

"Fetch Mr. Mercer here a bucket o' salt water. See t' it he cleans an' tends up these wounds."

"Aye, Capt'n."

I walk back t' the helm, head held high an' ignorin' mutinous whispers an' glares. I turn t' the wheel, an' that Nubian still be standin' there, black eyes borin' int' mine. I stopped him from bein' beat. Don' matter. 'nother quarter o' an hour, he be back in the Hell below deck, sufferin' still.

I ain't done nothin' t' change that.

Doubt begin t' grow in me heart. Mercer finishes th' task, his EITC lads lookin' mutinous. There be trouble what come o' this. Big trouble. They lead the Nubian back t' the hold, an' Bill takes his place up again mendin' his sail, fingers workin' thread through a frayin' seam.

He still won' look a' me.

An' which is more important? Redeemin' a name, or keepin' a soul? What has more worth, your word t' a Comp'ny what does things unspeakable an' despicable in th' high name o' Queen an' Country…,or th' faith an' respect o' even one good man?


	5. A Force to be Reckoned With

**AN: Jack knew his father. His mother raised him by herself. And he has loved Elizabeth from the day they met…**

** _…what if the most important scenes in the Pirates Trilogy never made it to the screen?_**

******'She had the medallion…she's the right age?' Will is the son of Bootstrap Bill Turner. His only son. But did Bootstrap have a daughter as well? If so, what happened to her? And why was she never found?**

** A father's love. A family's loss. A young man's guilt and a friend's betrayal. Unexpected forgiveness, an untimely death…**

** Jack and Will. The greatest love stories are never romance.**

* * *

Funny, what a man thinks about when left t' himself, wi' the open sky above an' endless waves in all directions, only the creaks an' groans o' the ridin' ship t' fill the time….he ponders, worries, thinks. He's left t' contemplate life an' significance, an' his mind wanders t' strange an' disturbin' things…

Funny, too, how life repeats itself.

I be standin' on the deck o' _the Wench_, a strange nighttime sky shinin' down on me, a spray o' salt in me face. And yet, I be sittin' here in Port Royal, nigh fourteen years later, the stench o' sweat an' piss, o' wet dog an' foul breath washin' over me.

They say all what all it take for bad men t' triumph is for good men t' stand an' do nothin'. I think o' the boy:

_"I will not stand aside when it is in my power to save someone unjustly accused…So don't ask me to step aside and do nothing. Don't ask me to watch you hang, Jack." He shakes his head. " I can't."_

They be wrong. No man what truly calls himself good could ever stand aside an' do nothin'. An' I know it bitterly…

November 5th, 1726. A day I will spend the next fourteen years o' me life regrettin'.

I form me plan early that morn, before the sun ever rises. I wrestle wi' me decision, tellin' meself tain't worth it, I only condemn them t' death. You can't just shove 300 men an' women off a ship an' leave 'em on a deserted shore. It'd be murder…

They toss another body over the edge, not even botherin' to attach shot nor weight t' the feet. The dark corpse rides the waves an' the wake, an' I stare at it for a long, long time. That's the tenth one already. Sickness, suffocation, starvation…some commit suicide, others murder their neighbors in a desperate attempt t' have more air. They all be condemned t' death, whether on me ship or in the New World. Ain't no chance they have o' ever gettin' back.

I will take them all t' shore. I will set them free. These stars are strange t' me, but they've known them all their lives…As a Captain, the stars be what take me t' me next port, a compass, a guide, written an' shinin' through the midnight skies.... I kin only hope that as captives, these same stars kin lead them home.

I don't know if I kin save 'em. But I have t' try.

_I have to try_.

Fourteen years later, Will Turner will whisper these same words t' me through iron bars. I try t' make him see that only regret an' sorrow kin come from it. But he's a good man, a damn good man. I won't have him die for me…an' yet I kin no more turn him away than hold back th' tide…

Conscience, when all's said an' done, be a force t' be reckoned with.


	6. What You Done

**AN: Jack knew his father. His mother raised him by herself. And he has loved Elizabeth from the day they met…**

…_**what if the most important scenes in the Pirates Trilogy never made it to the screen?**_

'**She had the medallion…she's the right age?' Will is the son of Bootstrap Bill Turner. His only son. But did Bootstrap have a daughter as well? If so, what happened to her? And why was she never found?**

**A father's love. A family's loss. A young man's guilt and a friend's betrayal. Unexpected forgiveness, an untimely death…**

**Jack and Will. The greatest love stories are never romance. **

**

* * *

**_You're a damn fine man, Jack_. Bill Turner once told me. _Took a lot of courage to do what you done. _

Those words ring jus' as clear now as they did then. But then they filled me wi' courage t' go on, t' face what I knew mus' come…the strength o' conscience behind me. Yet fourteen years later an' I know th' truth now. Those words—that respect...now taste a bitter lie in me mouth.

Ain't me, but Will Turner be a damn fine lad. Cause what he's about t' do…he'll do wi'out regrets.

_November 6__th__, 1726. It be hot that day as we pull 'em from the hold, load em' int' the boats, an' row our way t' shore.. Me men be still aboard _the Wench_, cleaning below, bringing blessed sunlight into those horrible pits of human filth…I had t' leave 'em behind. Couldn't ask 'em t' do what I must. What I do, I must do alone…_

"_What the hell you think you're doing, Captain!" Mercer be shoutin'.  
_

"_Puttin' t' shore." I state coldly. _

_He snorts. "Puttin' t' shore. And with Company Cargo? Company don't unload until we've reached port…and this ain't Brazil."_

"_You're right. It ain't. It's bloody fuckin' nowhere, Mr. Mercer. An' that's why I chose this here spot. Nowhere t' run." _

_He arches his thin eyebrows, reptilian eyes glarin' in the heat o' the sun. "Chose? And for what I wonder?"_

"_Business." I state. "Oi, you there, Bill Turner! Get those damn monkeys in th' boat!" _

_Bill lifts the small child int' the boat, an' he shoots me a look what be worse 'an anything Mercer could ever give. Mercer be cold, cruel. Ain't never gonna see hot tears o' anger from his lidless eyes. Bill looks at me in rage, disappointment…an' betrayal. Ain't never want t' see a look like that again... _

But not eight years later, it be my turn. Mine t' turn away, give me back t' a man what I thought a friend…a man whose conscience promised me Heav'n, and left me nothin' but Hell...

"_Belay that!" Mercer shouts, pantin' and sweatin' like a pig. He turns t' me, eyes mutinous. "Captain Teague, you take Company Merchandise to shore, I want Company Men guarding it!" _

"_We all work for th' same Comp'ny." I state. "I've got commission, same as you."_

_Rustle o' cloth. Firm fist under me throat, haulin' me up by me collar. "My men go ashore with those negros or they don't go at all." Spit be flyin' in me face._

_One dark arm up I wrest away from his grasp. "You've got equal stake." I shrug. "Fair's fair. Your men go ashore."_

_He nods, smirks, an' shouts th' change. Brutes like him always like t' think they're in charge. Use their force an' strength, their wealth an' influence t' get wha' they want…need power t' feel like a man. An' that's why they'd touch a slave woman in th' hold o' me ship-because she's helpless, an' it make him feel powerful. He's a bastard…an' a bloody fool. Been me plan all along. Can't take me own men down wi' me. Have no regrets about takin' his.  
_

_We climb int' the dinghy. "I don't trust you, Captain Teague. I warn you now: any funny business and I report this back to the Company."_

_Me eyes be flashin' into his. "Funny business? Not this. This be _good _kind, Mr. Mercer. Good for me, good for you. Good for the bleedin' Company."_

_Two o' his lads be rowin' us t' the abandoned shore. Nothin' but a barren stretch o' rock an' sand as far as the eye kin see. There ain't much hope for 'em…but ain't much is a damn sight better 'an none a'tall. Hazy in heat, waverin' above th' waves, the god-forsaken coast o' Africa welcomes 'em home, Mercer's lads draggin' heavy chains an' yokes what bind th' Nubians together through the shallows an' the coarse, gritty sand._

"_An' what kind o' business be that?" He persists, face jus' inches from me own. _

_I smile-a dangerous smile. "The profitable kind, o' course." An' suddenly I be chucklin'. "Weigh our losses. We've got three hundred, nigh twenty be dead already. Many more be sick. Atlantic got storms, heat…how many you think will survive when the food an' water runs low an' the rats are bitin'?" I ask coldly. "Not many. An' fewer yet after bein' lashed."_

_His eyes squint int' mine. He's catching on…almost._

"_And what are you suggesting, Captain Teague?"_

"_It's elementary, Mr. Mercer. Maybe cruel…but after all, it only be cargo." I flick me eyes knowin'ly t' the long lines o' slaves. "An' it's just...good business."_

That last line I come darkly t' regret.

"_Good business." He nods slowly, dinghy bobbin' up an' down wi' the choppy, azure waves. "Elaborate."_

_I squint me eyes, lookin' all suspicious at his lads, an' beckon 'im closer. "Simple. Weed out th' sick an' the weak. Leave more food an' water for th' strong. No one takes on 300 an' delivers 'em. Mostly you figure nigh seventy o' em might make it. Few more, but hardly worthy t' sell, have t' be nursed back t' health…an' it be the middle men what get the profit for that."_

_An' those hawkish eyes turn hirsine as he muses. "Keep the strong."_

_Sweat drip from me nose as I nod. "An' keep th' women o' child-bearin' age. The rest…" I smile again-impish, knowing smile. "Nobody gonna miss."_

_He leans back int' the stern, noddin' back at me, terrible, new-found respect growin' in his eyes an' in his black, godless heart. I shudder-be far, far different from th' faith an' respect o' a man like good ol' Bill Turner. Doubt th' Devil himself could be so full o' pride an' hate- _

"_I thought I understood you, Captain Teague. " He says coolly. "But it appears we are more similar than I had originally believed. If I have seemed remiss…you will of course, understand?"_

_I nod me head, gaugin' behin' his hat t' the shore. Dark, emaciated figures be staggerin' out o' the boats. Hull grinds the reef, an' we stand, feet sinkin' int' grainy, merciless shore, heat risin' in unforgivin' waves. Even through me boots I feel it. _

_Poor souls. They whimper an' cringe, feet burnt an' blistered…_

_You're a damn fool, Jack. I berate meself. They ain't never gonna make it t' water…killin' 'em would be more merciful 'an what you got planned!_

_An' fer a long minute I stan' there, takin' 'em all in. Women. Children. Warriors. Wrest from their homes, raped, lashed, even the strongest an' the bravest near t' breakin' after days wi'out water nor food…_

"…_separate 'em out! Any weak limbs, any deformities-over here! Take the bucks over here, breeders this way-"_

_They be sickly an' weak. Hundreds o' miles from home. Weakened. Sick. Broken. I close me eyes, a tiny breeze blowin', faint an' reminiscent in th' terrible heat…_

…_an' I remember th' stars. Me Gypsy mum could read 'em. So kin I. An' these people-these miserable wretches now before me-'ave seen 'em in every night-time sky, part o' their myths, legends. Part o' their tribes, tongues, peoples…_

…_an' what family an' gods they have I trust t' guide 'em home. _

_Me eyes open, the sand rent an' trodden a thousan' ways. Women cryin', children screamin', tryin' t' break the lines, Mercer's men be swingin' clubs int' their small, shaven heads, terrible smack o' wood on bone, shoutin' and swearin'-_

_Ain't got no choice. Conscience, compassion compel me-_

_I raise me hand, an' fire a lone shot int' the air. _

_The shoutin' stops at once. Even the EITC lads be cowed._

_Heavin' an' hot against me chest, I hold Mercer tight, pistol pressed int' the slick, sweaty skin o' his neck. Muzzle be against his jaw. It be a killin' shot._

_Silence. Everybody be standin' still in shock. Figures waver in th' heat, dark an' distorted, skinny, skeletonal limbs elongated eerily. Motion slows, hazy an' indistinct, white faces blurrin', rifles raisin'-_

"_Drop 'em!" I shout. "Drop 'em or I shoot!"_

"_Don't do it lads!" Mercer be shoutin' back, not even strugglin' agains' me grip. "Don't listen t' him!" He drops his voice t' a sneerin' whisper: "Don't be a fool, Jack. You know you can't kill me. You'll lose your leverage-"_

"_Drop 'em! Drop 'em now!" I threaten again, voice deep an' terrible. "Don't think I won't!"_

_Mercer jus' laughs. "He's bluffing, lads!"_

'_Nother shot ring out. Mercer lets out a loud shout o' pain- _

"_I said NOW!" Blood run hot an' sticky down me face, Mercer moanin' an' holdin' his gapin' shoulder-_

_Rifles fall slowly, reluctantly, landin' gently an' soundlessly int' the sand…joined swiftly by the clinkin' o' chains…_

_Mercer be heavin' against me, nigh faintin' in pain an' heat, hissin' in frustration, watchin' his lads free every last man, woman an' child. An' each take off runnin' the momen' his chains fall, fadin' slowly int' the waverin', unforgivin' horizon o' the forsaken shore, alone an' in groups, hands joined in desperate chains, swallowed together int' the heat an' horrors o' the Dark Continent._

…An' like the lepers o' old, none turn back t' thank me.

_Mercer's pantin'. Men's mutinous looks. Pulsin', terrible heat…the wood o' the gunstock fall wi' a single bead o' sweat from me fingers t' the grainy sand below-_

_I wake. Me lips be broken an' bleedin'. This time the pistol be against my skin, their chains now on me hands an' feet, the whip meant for them be crashin' down against me back…but it be worth it. All o' it. 'Cause th' las' thing I see 'fore the heat an' weakness take me be the face o' Bill Turner, cleanin' me wounds gently wi' compassion in his eyes- _

"_You're a damn fine man, Jack." He whispers, face swimming an' fallin' away…"Took a lot of courage to do what you've done…"_

Courage. Aye. An' compassion.

…Damn compassion.

Never set out to be known as a good man, Dog. Didn't get t' be, neither. They took compassion an' they called it crime. Took justice an' made it a jest. Took love, an' made it a lie…

Me head lays against the bare, black iron, starin' out of me cell, as much a prisoner t' the boy's hands as t' his bleedin' conscience. Either way, he holds me fast, an' like a ship wi' a locked rudder, he will not be turned…

I pace me cell. Can't sleep. Ain't no rest for me.

Ain't no peace for me, either. Me heart be filled not w' resignation but wi' black an' bitter regret. Bill Turner I might 'ave spared…but at dawn, it be his damn reckless boy-far, far better man than me or his father, about t' die for what I done.


	7. Fiddler's Strings

Time.

It has a way of shrinkin' in. Catchin' up…tense an taunt like a fiddler's strings, that high pitched shriek o' protest. But the closer you get t' the end, the more aware you become. 'Cause time's not a string. Not a sequence o' events proceeding each other, on an' on wi'out end. It's a chord, knotted an' kinked, woven intricately together like a ship's rigging, every strand o' hemp connected to th' next.

The Bell tolls two. Time. Me face pressed into these melancholy bars. Outside, the tide be waxing. Time. Two hours into my past, Will Turner looks me in the eyes and promises to set me free. As he always has, always will, has always been promising in this one instant. Time. Two hours from my past, I am sitting in my cell, pondering the Music, a cello plays sadly. Time. Two weeks in my past, I sit in a jail cell in Port Royal, contemplating me escape from the gallows and Hector's murder. As I always have done. As I always will. Time. An hour from now, the last face I expect to see comes hurriedly down those steps, interrupting my fight with an iron lock: the boy from the Smithy, Will Turner. Coming to set me free. As he always has done. Always will do at this moment in time. Time. Nineteen years in my past, Bill Turner stands in front of me, promising to set me free from that prison in Singapore, not knowing that in my future he is already the past, that as he speaks so does his son, their words and faces mingling in me weary mind…

_"Oy, you there, Teague!" Another voice shouts, wakes me from fitful sleep. I sit an' flinch, me back still be scored with lashmarks, bitter an' deep. Jus' movin' make 'em bleed anew…_

"What you want, you bloody lobsterback?" I growl at 'im, turnin' me head an' blinkin' in th' darkness. Soldier, all right. White woolen breeches, long, dyed coat…but that hat don't fit right, an' that wig be hangin' crooked… No, can't be-

"Bill-!" I nigh shout, sittin' upright, clutchin' me burned an' blackened arm.

"Shh, you idiot, you want to get us both killed?" He remonstrates, voice naught but a hissin' whisper.

"What you be doin' here, mate?" I hiss back at him through th' bars. "What the hell you be doin' here?"

"Helping you, if you'd only shut it and listen!" He says fiercely, shovin' a parcel int' the floor o' me cell. But it ain't no parcel. It be a bundle o' cloth. O' clothes. O' women's clothes…

For a moment, I just stare. Fluffy petticoats, long white knickers, a silken bodice (an' it's still warm a part o' me can't help but notice), an' a fine cotton dress…a parasol…

"Thanks, mate." I say, the perfumed warmth o' the chemise lingerin' still in me hands. "but next time I'd rather jus' have the girl."

Bill jus' blink, confused.

I grin an' shake me head. "Get out o' here, mate. Guard be comin' by on watch-"

"No," Bill whispers back. "No, begging your pardon, he's not. He's with…with a wench, Jack. The wench what I took those clothes from-"

An' the guard's as well I don't doubt. I squint up at 'im in th' darkness, tryin' t' read his face. "What you doin', mate." I whisper, uncertain.

"Escaping you, if you'd listen! Now put 'em on, Jack." He orders fiercely. "Put 'em on."

The cloth be fine in me hands, soft an' delicate what like a woman's skin…

"What the hell you be thinkin', Turner?" I whisper. "T'ain't never gonna work-"

"The hell it will, Jack. I've watched this place for days, man, days. Always wenches coming and going with the guards-"

But he don't understand. Can't let him do this. Bill Turner got a wife an' young son at home. A wife what I promised t' bring him back-

"Hurry, man, hurry!" But still I hesitate, knowing what he don't. T'ain't worth it. Man's got a wife an' young son at home…ain't worth losin' them…But somethin' in his eyes tell me different. Somethin' tell me he ain't an ignorant fool. Ain't blinded by friendship, loyalty or sense o' duty…He know th' risks…

But I be compelled t' say it anyways. "An' if we get caught?" 

Nineteen years into my future, I ask another Turner that same question: What happens to you, William? What happens to you? But at both two hours and nineteen years in my past, both the father an' son promise not to leave me.

Good man, that Bill Turner. His son as well. True friend don't turn his back. Don't run away. An' perhaps that's why I'm alone on me deathbed. Because in me forty-some years o' livin', ain't known a man I'd be willin' t' die for. Not for Bill. Not for Gibbs. Not even the lad. Good man. Deserves to live. But me life-godforsaken an' guilt ridden as it be-be precious to me, I got but one, an' it ain't worth tradin'.

Pace your cell. Walk up an' down these stone floors. Grasp that cold iron again between your ringed hands…

He be innocent. I be guilty. He be willin' to trade his life for me own…an' as the bell toll closer an' closer t' dawn, I be be closer an' closer t' lettin' him.

Because life, like time, be a string. Got a beginnin'….an' an end.

Good men. Bad men. All die. An' we be fools to think that in th' end it make a damn bit o' difference.


	8. Uncharted Consequences

**AN: Jack knew his father. His mother raised him by herself. And he has loved Elizabeth from the day they met…**

…_**what if the most important scenes in the Pirates Trilogy never made it to the screen?**_

'**She had the medallion…she's the right age?' Will is the son of Bootstrap Bill Turner. His only son. But did Bootstrap have a daughter as well? If so, what happened to her? And why was she never found?**

**A father's love. A family's loss. A young man's guilt and a friend's betrayal. Unexpected forgiveness, an untimely death…**

**Jack and Will. The greatest love stories are never romance.

* * *

**

**WARNING: a little more graphic content than I usually write.

* * *

**

Bell chimes again. Quarter o' an hour's past. A Quarter o' an hour I'll never have again. A quarter of an hour in which Jack Sparrow will always be standin' in a prison, contemplatin' time…A quarter o' an hour, frozen, locked, forever in my past. But even this meager show o' past-even the darkest parts o' it-begin t' look brighter an' brighter. Th' closer you find yourself t' the end o' that knotted, twisted mess th' more beautiful each moment look. Quarter o' an hour. Precious now. I don't have many left…

The night watch taps by overhead. Ninety steps til he returns. More patterin' of feet, lighter an' delicate. You kin smell 'em on the air, sickly sweet perfume an' sweat: whores. The priests be all gone, an' the girl's 'ave come t' play. For those o' us able t' bribe a guard wi' treasures hidden on our persons, or wi' the tantalizing lure o' buried treasure on a distant shore, the goods an' wares o' Port Royal's night be available. They be all shapes, sizes, from a broad-shouldered wench nigh forty t' a tiny thing scarcely fifteen, curled hair fallin' down int' their kohl-blackened eyes. And for once in me life…I don't partake.

I stare out the window overhead, try t' ignore th' prostitutes pressed against th' bars, men's dirty hands pawin' possessively…

A flash o' blonde from th' corner o' me eye. For a breathless second I believe the girl has come, that the foolhardy lad has convinced her t' spare me…

But I am mistaken. William might have reason t' free me. But the Governor's daughter don't. We're too similar, her an' I. _Peas in a pod, Darlin'_, I told her, _peas in a pod_. I wouldn't have risked it for her…and she-a young woman of fortune in an already compromising situation-has more to lose than I ever could.

She won't come. And that flash o' flaxen hair belong only t' a common whore, caressed by callous hands. Damn. She be young. Too young t' be doin' this. I turn away, can't look. Don't want t' see those dirty hands on her pale skin…

…don't want to be reminded of me own sins.

_1726. Fort James Island. Just off the docks, a young girl be propositioning sailors, pullin' open the front o' her dress, showin' the dirty, sweat-soaked men her wares. Not uncommon…cept this girl be white, whiter than me. There ain't a drop o' Nubian nor Arab blood in her, she be fair-skinned an' burnin' in th' heat. Her blonde hair be curled in ringlets, and I find meself staring like the rest: we've all had as many slant-eyed and dark-skinned whores as we kin stomach. She be coquettish an' coy, just th' right mix o' demure an' demandin'. I be amazed none of 'em have taken her up on her offer…_

_…that is, until she's had enough._

_"Fuck you!" She shouts, all traces of finery in her dripping voice gone. Her voice be horrid an' screechy, that sort o' accent what makes a cat's scream sound like t' real music. Bill an' I both grimace as she hurls insult after insult t' her would-be customers, what kind that make even us two sea-dogs blush. But finally she be done, there be no more men t' curse at, and her lungs give out one last repartee:_

_"I make more inna week than any o' you do per annum! Fuck you! All o' you!"_

_T' me eternal surprise, Bill Turner step forward. "Lass," he calls, an' she eye him fretfully, all anger gone. He's a big man. Could hurt a woman if he wanted to, and she knows it. She be about t' bolt but a wary glance t' the shadows o' the pier hold her fast. Her master's watchin', and brute or not she can't refuse._

_"Aye?" She asks haughtily, tossin' her hair an' sendin' him a contemptuous stare._

_Bill hands her a coin, tell her to get herself off the docks, stay safe. She curses him too, throws the gold at his astonished face, shouts she don't need no charity…_

_I pick up the coin, flip it through me fingers, toss it in the air…and it vanishes in front of Bill's eyes into my outstretched palm. Sleight o' hand. Trick I learned from me gypsy mum._

Same trick I would use, nigh nineteen years later, as the whelp's shrewd eyes narrow over the harsh glint of Aztec gold…

_Bill ain't missed a beat. "And what you be doing with that coin, Jack?" He ask me._

_"Nothin' you ain't already done."_

_"Aye, and where you be going?" He crosses his strong arms, disapproving as I saunter after her._

_I grin, clever smile stretchin' across me face. "Why, t' give the lovely little lady her coin back, o' course." I clap 'im on the back, and follow her slight form through th' crowd._

_"Oy, lass!" I call, an' she turn, immediately on guard._

_"What?" She ask waspishly, takin' me in from head t' toe, sizin' me up. I've been t' enough brothels an' the like in me life t' know what it is she be thinkin'. Too young, too inexperienced, too unprotected t' be wonderin' what I be like in bed. And she ain't lookin' at me clothes, neither, judgin' whether she think I could afford her or not…_

_…no, she be young. Naïve. Scared. She be lookin' straight in me eyes, wonderin' if I be the sort o' man what would beat her or not._

_I ain't. I smile, put me hand near her ear, an' pull out Bill's coin from inside it. She gasps, still childish enough t' be intrigued by the trick, but her eyes be narrowin'. She know that coin. Recognizes me as bein' wi' Bill._

_"I don't need no charity." She say, all haughty-like._

_"Course not, love." I say softly. "How'd you like t' earn it?"_

_Her brothel be hot an' stuffy, th' walls too thin an' the grog too watery. But it seems decent enough. Cleaner than most, although the sickly smell o' sweat and night soil be rank in the air. Her room is small but spacious, with a barred window overlookin' the port. She's white. Affords luxuries by the clientele she brings in. I bring a fistful o' her blonde hair to me face, and breathe in its heavy perfume._

_Been a long time since I've seen a fair-skinned girl. Been even longer since I've been wi' one. All me crew be doin' the same thing tonight-all but Bill Turner. We've been at sea for two damn months an' our first night on land the man bloody volunteers to stand guard on ship. But then, he be married-happily married-even more strange. And t' think o' it, I've drank wi' him at a hundred different ports from Scotland t' Singapore and yet I ain't never once seen him take a girl upstairs…_

_An' with a stab o' guilt I think o' young Nancy Turner, standin' all alone on the Bristol pier, her wee lad carried over one hip, wavin' goodbye t' the Wench._

_I be impatient. Starvin'. Two months aboard a ship, tossed by waves and the winds o' Cape of Good Hope I ain't in no mood t' be gentle. I want her an' I want her now. Forceful an' unforgiven. But the lass be young, blonde. Pale an' wide-eyed like Bill's girl…Hell, I think. That damn Turner's gonna make a good man out o' you if you're not careful. _

_Lass be tuggin' clumsily at her clothes. "Let me do that, love." I say kindly. She can't look up at me, an' she be shakin' somethin' awful. She's used to harsh treatment from rogues what a day off th' sea, an' I be determined t' show her somethin' different._

_I undress her slowly, one layer o' cloth at a time. Put me hands in her long, piled hair and let it down gently t her naked shoulders. It's flaxen and silky between me fingers…still the hair o' a young girl an' not a woman. I almost ask her age…but every man's got his limitations. When in doubt, it's best not to know._

_I stalk her in a slow circle, takin' her in from ber golden head t' her tiny, delicate feet. There be scratch marks down the white skin o' her back, an' bruises on her wrists. There also be angry red wheals from the bite o' a whip runnin' down her thighs. She be new at this. Fresh merchandise, broken in like a wild horse. You can't slap a wench an' expect t' get work out o' her. Man don't want a girl wi' a beaten face but by the time he strip her down this far even the most kind-hearted don't care no more._

_'Who gave you those, love?" I ask her sternly._

_She goes scarlet, mumbles her master's name._

_"Well, now," I say, undressin' in turn. "I'll have t' have a word wi' him about how he treats his girls."_

_Her face go ghastly. "Please no, sir!"_

_"The name's Jack, love." I tell her gently. "Call me that."_

_I lay her down slowly, press me lips against her neck. She shuts her eyes, an' hangs on blindly, too scared t' escape, too ashamed t' scream._

_She's brave. She only cries out once, a whispered squeal o' terror. But what few weeks she's worked here she's been taught harshly that a man don't like a girl what weeps when she's taken._

_Funny thing, this whole businesses. When a man courts a woman he means to impress. There are whore-houses in every corner of the world filled with beauties beyond imagination where a man would do anything t' please…But unless he pay handsomely for it, a man don't give a damn what a woman thinks. He can beat his wife within th' bounds o' the law, and a cheap wench like this? Well, as long as the girl still be able t' draw customers, it don't matter how ill she be treated. But the difference between a Geisha's gentle treatment and a wench's abuse is only a matter o' power. Man pays a small fortune for the pretense he can pleasure Aphrodite herself, wants her, desires her…whereas a cheap woman or an unwanted wife are there because every man has needs, some o' 'em darker than others._

_I treat her like a queen. Tell her she's beautiful. Sing her bits o' poetry, snippets o' songs an' love from every corner o' the world, in every language I kin think of. Kiss her full mouth, caress her gently, love her tenderly until her frightened eyes open in wonder, confused at my kindness. Her small shoulders stop shakin' an' she lay still an' silent, eyes tearin' not in fear but in pleasure, satiated like a babe after sucklin', lyin' still an' sleepy against a mother's breasts. She ain't never been comfortable enough t' enjoy passion before._

_…I make sure she does._

_She sighs. Pants me name. She ain't near experienced enough t' fake it, moans for me every time I leave her. She lies limply like a doll, cuddles closer t' me chest an' she sleeps as I caress her gently. I ain't never spent the night wi' a woman before. Never known how content a man could be just t' watch one sleep, t' feel her warmth against me skin an' simply hold her…_

_I am twenty-four. And I have just _made love_ t' a woman for the first time. I've had countless before…will have countless more. I've always paid, never taken by force, but it'd be a lie t' say I ain't never been harsh nor unkind, domineering an' masterful t' the point o' pain. An' not every girl what works as a whore is pleased wi' her lot…but if me money keeps a roof over her head, an' food in her belly…I've lied to meself for years that it ain't rape, it's simply business._

_Damn you, Bill Turner. I think, driftin' off t' sleep. The lass lays sleepin' in me arms and I know now why a man pays, ruts, an' leaves. Leavin' is guiltless, emotionless…the face an' body o' one wench blurrin' into th' next. But this I won't forget. Can't forget. I'll remember this 'ne, remember her smell, her fair, smooth skin til th' day I die._

I know now I was foolish. Reckless. Naïve. An' Bill Turner, whatever else he may be, was right. The prison whores moan in feigned pleasure, used t' the harshness o' life, scornin' pity an' regret. It would've been better, would've been kinder, to have beat the girl senseless an' never returned….

_We've been in Ft. James for nigh a fortnight now, waitin' on 'Company Cargo', as that wanker Mercer put it. But after two long months at sea, me lads be happy enough t' spend time ashore…meself included. Giselle be young an' sassy, eager t' please, an' easily pleasured. I've spent countless pennies on ribbons for her fair hair, bought her chokers an' kerchiefs what have caught her fancy, even a dress o' silk an' muslim what would do a real lady proud. Her master don't trust me, sends his black mongrels after us t' trail through the market place, but I've brought her back after every excursion. He's right t' be concerned. Lot o' sailors try t' smuggle a woman aboard for the voyage across th' Atlantic, sell 'em as indentured servants on th' other side. An' a pale beauty like Giselle would make a fine prize indeed…_

_I leave her ashore, admirin' the ship from afar, no doubt dreamin' girlish fancies o' bein' kidnapped by me an' taken back t' bloody England. Sorry, love, I think sadly, climbin' aboard the Wench t' see the progress o' repairs._

_"What's our status, Mr. Turner?" I ask me mate Bill, takin' a long look at the patched black sails._

_"She's just a lass," He chides. "She's far too young."_

_"I be askin' about th' ship, mate." I jibe, an' he frown._

_"She ain't much younger than your Nan," I state. "Or at least, your Nan when you married her." His woman be seventeen, wi' a toddlin', wooly-headed lad. She couldn't o' been more 'an fifteen when he first had her._

_'Aye, Jack. And that's the difference. I married her. What's gonna happen to that girl when we sail?"_

_"I pay her, Bill. Pay her well. An' thanks t' you an' your bleedin' conscience, I treat her well enough, too."_

_"Then you're being cruel, Jack. Not kind. You think every man's going to coddle like you've done?"_

_I be silent. Mull me retort bitterly. "I'll take advice from you, Turner, when you're experienced enough t' give it. You ain't no different from me, mate. You think you're better because you married that lass? I'll tell you what marriage is, you meddlin' blighter, it's a compromise. Passion for protection. There ain't no difference between that whore an' your Nan. I've just got the impropriety t' say so-"_

_Ain't the first time in me life I've been struck. But it is the first time I've been struck by a member o' me own crew…and th' first time a blow's sent me blind an' reelin'. I come to. My nose be bleedin', and I curse him, jump t' me feet an' nearly strike him meself-_

_But somethin' hold me back. Ain't never met a man as meek as Bill. He's a giant. Like as not he could snap me spine in two wi' his bare hands but he don't. There ain't no fight in him, his eyes be sad, not angry, quite willin' t' accept the lashin' he deserves. He be defendin' his Nan's honor, nothin' more._

_"Damn you, Turner." I say stuffily, wipin' the blood from me face. "Not all o' us can be as noble as you."_

_He smile grimly. "I don't suppose you'd consider trying."_

_"Hardly." I grimace, rubbin' me broken nose, givin' him a thump on th' shoulder. "When virtue starts bein' it's own reward, mate, let me know." An' I stagger t' the helm to inspect the steerin'._

Like father like son, I smile sadly, still facin' that window. Nigh two weeks ago the boy reprimanded me in Tortuga, strongly against the notion of me followin' a wench up the staircase o' the Faithful Bride.

_"Elizabeth's in danger and you're…you're…" He flusters, an' can't even bring himself t' say it. I grin._

_"I'm what, boy? Speak up, I can't hear you."_

_" 'e can't even say it, can 'e?" The wench chides scathingly. Nothing a whore hates worse than a blunderin' virgin. Let that be known an even the kindest can turn as unforgivin' and vicious as sharks sensin' blood in th' water. She step closer t' him an' he pulls back, face a ghastly scarlet. "Lor', virgin f' sure." An' everyone within hearin' take a long, hearty laugh at 'im._

"_Jack," he pleads, "Elizabeth-"_

_"Aye, lad, you're right." I say. "Only one thing t' be done." I snatch a bottle o' rum from the hand of a sleepin' drunk, and shove it sloppin' down his chest. "Not a sailor on this rock'll be sober enough nor willin' t' sail until mornin'. I suggest you enjoy yourself 'til then." I say wi' an impish grin, tippin' me hat. "Ta."_

_He stands glowerin' at the foot o' the stairs, holdin' that rum an' chewin' his tongue. Brave man, that Will Turner, I think t' meself. But his wit leaves somethin' t' be desired. I lay next t' the girl, an' try t' forget that in the mornin', I'll take the lad t' his death._

Bell rings again. I stand, pacin' me cell as restless as that night, turning listlessly in th' sweaty, sleepless heat o' that Tortugain inn: The Faithful Bride. Bride like little Nancy Turner, waitin' for her husband t' come back home, raisin' her lad th' best she could. There weren't no rest for me then. Sure as hell ain't none for me now…

I turn back t' the door, an' that dog be watchin' me still. I sigh, sit, stare back at 'im. Those keys dangle from his droolin' mouth, jus' inches outta reach…

"_I helped build these cells. These are half-pin barrel hinges." An' suddenly the fool be liftin' the bench as effortlessly as if t'were straw, jamming it int' the lattice o' the gate, eyes bright an' earnest. "With the right leverage and the proper application of strength, the door will lift free._

_Boy has a funny way o' speakin'. Almost too expressive, as it were. An' he be rash. Too rash-reminds me o' B-_

_I blink. _

_That earnest face. Those dark eyes. Even that voice be bloody familiar. But it can't be true, be bloody impossible-bloody improbable- I squint me eyes, cock me head…and still there he stands: Bill Turner. But with Nancy's doe eyes. There is a long pause-nigh too long. "What's your name, boy?"_

_But part o' me already know. Because in me head I am in another cold prison, half a world away. Nigh twenty years ago, Bill Turner stand in front o' me cell, sayin' the exact same thing…_

I'd find it easier t' be a good man if it were easy. Not sayin' a man shouldn't have consequences, that there shouldn't be a price…It's jus' that some prices be too heavy t' bear. I could live wi' me execution for settin' free slaves. Was me choice, me sacrifice-

…But I ain't never been comfortable wi' lettin' an innocent man suffer 'cause o' me.

But life, like music, has this way o' repeatin' itself. Some people like t' believe what that it happens for a reason, a purpose as it were. The gods givin' us another chance, one more go round t' get it right-

…Or wrong.

_"Hurry, man!" Bill hiss, bundlin' me into the wench's clothes. But even that silk feel like fire against me back, an' it be all I kin do t' stand an' not scream._

_"Ain't never gonna work, Bill." I gasp._

_"You shut up." He say harshly, haulin' me t' my feet. "And you play your part, hear? I've got a wife and a son and God help you if you're the reason he goes fatherless." Nancy Turner. I feel her cool skin against me cheek as she kisses me face before the Wench's maiden voyage. Her plaintive voice beg me bring her husband back, white arms lift her small son t' kiss me like he kissed his pa…_

_"Damn you, Bill." I grumble. "Always holdin' that over me head, ain't you?"_

_His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Only cause it works."_

_But I pull on those clothes, take his arm an' stagger out o' prison, coverin' a weeks worth o' beard wi' a fan an' a parasol. Bill walk beside me, steadyin' me on me weary feet, an' from a distance we look jus' like a soldier an' his whore, takin' a late night stroll…_

_Minutes pass. The threshold of the prison is now far behind us. Bill's firm grip on me branded arm throbs wi' every fast beat o' me heart, but I be too scared t' speak lest I betray us…_

_No one hails us. No one stops us. I don't look back. I stagger blindly through the streets of Fort James, vanishing from under th' watchful eyes of the Royal African Company and the East India Tea Company, in no more disguise than a woman's warm clothes._

_But it only be as I am stumbling from exhaustion, and am led indoors under Bill's watchful eye, away from the prying vigil of the EITC, that I notice my surroundings be familiar. Wooden walls, earthen floors, smell o' drink an' strong perfume, closed doors wi' th' stink o' sweat an' the sound o' raucous laughter all around…a brothel. Giselle's brothel. We reach a familiar room. Bill open the door, and I collapse on th' floor, spent an' sick. I look up, pull the saggin' bonnet from me sweaty face, blink in th' darkness…but the girl ain't there._

_It is only then I smell her on me skin. Wi' shakin' hands I pluck at the silk o' the dress…and recognize it as hers._

_Bill Turner, what've you done?_


	9. A Father's Footsteps

**AN: Jack knew his father. His mother raised him by herself. And he has loved Elizabeth from the day they met…**

**_…what if the most important scenes in the Pirates Trilogy never made it to the screen?_**

**'She had the medallion…she's the right age?' Will is the son of Bootstrap Bill Turner. His only son. But did Bootstrap have a daughter as well? If so, what happened to her? And why was she never found?**

**A father's love. A family's loss. A young man's guilt and a friend's betrayal. Unexpected forgiveness, an untimely death…**

**Jack and Will. The greatest love stories are never romance.

* * *

**

_A rappin' on th' door. I sit up groggily. "What you want?" I snap._

_"Jus' me, Jack." Bill's mild voice calls. "Making sure you're alone." I grimace, an' cross th' floor an' open th' door. I ain't proud o' th' fact that yesterday he walked blindly in on me…but it's a bleedin' brothel an' it's filled wi' girls and any other fool on God's green earth would've had the decency t' knock-_

Twenty years later I find I can smile at th' memory. But not another: Tortuga. That Turner family seem t' make the same mistakes, Bill an' that boy what could be his twin...

Damn lad rushes in th' moment th' horizon's light enough t' be called dawn. What's-her-face let's out a shriek an' I stand, whip me sword from th' bedside, blade flashin' wi' finality against my would-be-attacker's throat-

I'm on th' run. Wanted man. An' even a bloody fool like William Turner may've changed his mind an' alerted th' authorities-

But wi' th' thought o' that name I recognize--too late--a pale face in th' darkness. "Bloody hell, boy!" I shout, "What you be thinkin'?" That blade be against his throat, his face bloodless, dark eyes dull an' dead. His pale lips part, an' for an awful eternity he don't speak...an' I find me heart's stopped cold. From behind me that wench scream again, an' she be thinkin' the same as I. He ain't speakin' because he can't--and I need his blood t' get the Pearl.

Th' sword clatter from me hand. "Oy, William! William!" I rush t' him, grab his collar in me hands shake him as his knees give out, eyes still blank an' for a moment I swear I feel the sickening heat o' blood on me bare skin...

A long moment passes.

"Boy?" I shout, "Boy-!" An' suddenly he gasps, hands clenched over mine, a terrible light back in his lifeless eyes. "J-J-Jack..." He begin, starin' up at me afraid, astonished an' alive...seein' a fear mirrored in me own eyes that be sincere an' wild, a bitter regret an' terrible relief...an' if ever he had reason t' doubt me, it be gone. For a small eternity he stare up at me, whole world shrinkin' t' just Bill's boy an' I, then his head turns an' he goes even paler 'an before. He be starin' at her, face washed milk white wretched an' sick, an' for th' first time I notice what she has light hair, dark eyes an' she looks like that damn girl...

"You get the hell outta here, boy!" I snarl, an' I hurl him t' the hall. Don't take much effort. He's coughin' and chokin', still starin' stricken at th' wasted wench, fallin' sprawled down th' wall, hands at his throat. I slam th' door in his freckled face, heart heavin' that I came so close t' killin' him, t' losin' the Pearl for good...

"Who th' 'ELL is 'E?" The wench rounds on me th' second th' door be slammed.

'Distant relative of a cousin's nephew. Lovely singing voice. Eunuch." I tell her emotionlessly. "Don' mind him. An' put some damn clothes on."

"Well 'e's certainly a pain in th' arse if you ask me." She say, throwin' on her clothes in a snit. "If I was you I'd've went a'ead an' killed 'im."

"Can't, love." I lie through gritted teeth for th' boy's benefit. "Made a promise t' his father."

Not five minutes later I come downstairs, and for a second I be utterly speechless."Bloody hell, boy," I say from th' staircase, still shovin' me effects into me belt.

"Enjoy yourself?" He snaps, still pale an' sick. But a mug o' mornin' ale has done him good.

"Among other things." I finally say wi' a wolfish grin.

"I hope you paid her well," He fumes as I come gingerly t' th' bar. "Though I wouldn't put it past you to cheat even a woman, Jack." That last line hit a bit too close t' th' truth. I ain't never cheated a woman outta what she earned...but if she be too damn drunk t' remember that we ain't said nothin' about price...an' a man be bloody broke, well, then, it ain't really cheatin' her o' honest wages. I rub me jaw gingerly, thinkin' o' Scarlett's slap. His eyes narrow shrewdly, and he persists. "Well?"

"What sort o' man d' you take me for, William?" I ask. "O' course I paid her. Quite well." Don't add it be from his own change purse, but the wench be paid nonetheless.

"Well whatever it was you should've doubled it." He hisses. He's upset wi' me, I kin tell. Partly for his own stupidity...but mostly because I saw what he had since last night: the wench I was with could've passed for his damn Elizabeth...an' it had sent him sick wi' horror an' guilt an' that same cold fury of the smithy's stable. Not t' mention an ugly look what may be jealousy that still mars his countenance.

But I've had enough o' him. O' him and his damn honor. "That th' first girl you seen, boy? Cause it would seem t' me that I know my women better than you do an' she ain't really worth half what I gave her."

But this time he don't blush. A night spent alone in Tortuga, contemplatin' the fate o' the woman he loves while watchin' others led away by strange men has grown him up considerably. He ain't a blundering boy no more. He's a young man. An' he's angry. Affronted. His tongue's grown sharp as his swordsmanship. "No, for the smell. Now are you done wasting time or can we go?"

You always this piss-proud in th' mornin', Turner, I feel like retortin', or did seein' a girl make you decide t' become a man? But I don't. Something hold me back. Our conversation aboard the Interceptor...but it does no good t' think o' it now. Already convinced Gibbs I be tradin' th' boy for the Pearl. Bootstrap's son. Only surviving child. Long I've sought for a source o' leverage against Hector an' his bloody mutineers...the Pearl. It's been me goal for nigh ten years an' I fully intend t' get it.

...whatever it may cost.

Instead I grab a fistful o' me shirt an' take a heady draught. Shrug. Turn t' th' barkeep wi' an apologetic shrug. "Sorry mate," I tell the chap. "Boy gets like that sometimes if he's had too much t' drink."

I take a stab at me breakfast, an' Will Turner be positively stewing. He's been dark an' broodin' since last night. Since I told me plan t' Gibbs...but it ain't suspicion I be met wi'. It's all out, seethin' wrath, what wants nothin' t' do wi' pirates nor wenches nor Tortuga at all. He still be mad about that damn girl. An' not without reason. Tortuga be th' only place for th' crew we be needin', but I damned well never should've stayed th' night ahore. Be far, far too great a temptation t' resist. An' a man can help what sort o' wench might catch his fancy.

"Rather sour look you be wearin'." I tell him. "Funny. Your da' would give me th' same look sometimes. I swear you look jus' like him."

"Don't talk about my father, Jack." He say coldly. Claims he don't want t' hear it.

But you'd have t' be a fool t' believe him. "Why, boy? Knew th' man better than you ever did."

"Eat up. We're leaving."

"Oh?" I draw lazily. "An' who put you in charge?" His answer stop me cold.

There' s a smug smile on his thin lips. What same self-satisfied smirk he wore back in that smithy... "You did, Jack."

"That's highly an' unusally suspicious, lad, seein' as I have no recollection of the event whatsoever-"

"When I hired you. We had an accord."

I nod me head. "Ah, but then again you hired me on as Captain, boy. QED, I'm in charge."

"Captain you may be, but I hired you, making me proprietor. And as we're on land, not at sea, we'll be doing as I say."

I cross me arms. Open me mouth for a witty retort...an' don't have one. I raise a finger, point t' him wi' a clever counter arguement, only t' discover there ain't one. "You know boy," I say suddenly, "for th' first time since I met you you're talkin' bloody sense."

"Then we're leaving. _Savvy?_"

"Don't try t' talk like a pirate, son." I reprimand him outside wi' a wince. "You sound like the worst bloody pirate t' ever pass himself off as a scalawag."

"_Sounding_ like a terrible pirate is better than _being_ one." He says from the foot' of th' risin' tide.

"An' who says I'm a terrible pirate?" I ask, indignant.

"Me. Commodore Norrington. Tortuga in general." He shrugs, an' wi' each sentence he thows a stone into the lappin' waves. "I did some questioning last night, Jack. While you were-"

"While I was what?"

"-philandering." He states emotionlessly. "Word has it that you've never had a ship. That you introduce yourself as Captain out of farce-"

"_Philanderin'_?" I ask wi' distaste. "That ain't even a piratey term at all, son. No one's gonna bloody understand you. It's no wonder you spent las' night alone."

He's knelt over, bare fingers pryin' rocks up like a young lad diggin' for clams. "But I've done some thinking. You've piloted before, that much is obvious. Which means you've had a ship...and you're simply letting people believe what they want. Why?"

"Ignorance be bliss, boy." I state firmly. "An' besides. I find it easier bein' a pirate what the lower I keep everyone's expectations. Does a man no good t' have his reputation precede him if it means he can't put into port wi'out fear o' retribution. People like t' believe I'm a soddin' drunk...so I let 'em."

The boy shrug, throws another smooth stone into th' waves. "But if you had a ship, why is it that you showed up in Port Royale without one? What happened to yours? How did you lose it? And what were you doing in Port Royale in the first place?" he says all at once, hurlin' another rock into the warm waves.

I be silent. Caught guilty. His dark eyes narrow shrewdly, nearly lost in their lashes. "Don't lie to me, Jack. You threatened Elizabeth the day she fell. That means you were down on the docks-"

I interrupt him before he can think it through any further. That I came t' Port Royale t' _stea_l a ship, an' him bustin' me out o' prison fit more in wi' my plans than it does wi' his. "Bit o' a long story." I grunt.

"Well let's hear it then," He says, stooping t' th' sand for yet another sea-smoothed stone."We've got nothing better to do until Gibbs shows up with your able-bodied crew."

Gibbs. "Aye. And who be telin' you t' ask those questions, son?"

"Gibbs," He says, unblinking.

Thought as much. Good man. Good sailor. Bloody stupid drunk. "An' how d' you know ol' Joshamee?"

An' he cast me a skittish, sidelong glance what speaks volumes in his silence. Tells me he hasn't forgotten the Interceptor. Tells me he don't exactly trust me...but he wants to. An' deep down he trusts me t' do what's right. Thinks because he's his father's son he be safe wi' me. An' that lass o' his as well. I've played me ace...and played it well.

"Ah," I say, turnin' slowly away."I'd forgotten he'd served the Dauntless." Eight years ago now. Means he met Bill's son when he was merely 12, an' the girl as well. Joshamee Gibbs you're a fool, I say t' meself. A fool what could ruin this all...

"What are you hiding from me, Jack?" He asks lowly. "I shared my secrets. You share yours."

To tell, or not tell. I'm caught by conscience, an' the only thing what save me is my back be turned. If I'd been lookin' in his eyes, into Nancy Turner's eyes, I'd tell him th' whole damn truth...but instead I lie t' th' boy.

"Simple lesson in life, son. Honest fools kin make stupid mistakes. Some things you be safer not knowin'."

His voice is low an' accusatory, an' wi' a start I find th' boy's swallowed my ruse even deeper than I'd thought. I've talked t' him o' the father what abandoned him. Have heard o' his thankless treatment at the hands o' a drunken, careless master an' a governor what should've taken him in an' loved him as a son, an' instead left him a servant. He's looked t' three men in his short life, an' all have failed him. I be the fourth. An' he won't tolerate rejection no more. "What reason would you nave not to trust me, Jack?" He calls, runnin' t' stand in front o' me. "What won't Gibbs tell me?"

A sudden pang of anguish.

_Tell him, Jackie._

_Are you insane?_ I ask meself. T_he second th' boy hears about the curse he'll know what we need him for. He'll bolt here in Tortuga an' we'll never see him again!_

_He'll go. You know he'll go. He'll follow you straight t' the treasure, straight t' the girl, and he'd willingly take her place, the poor, stupid sacrificial lamb. Tell the truth. Come clean. At least his blood won't be on your hands-_

If I'd have stopped there I may have been forgiven. But I threw that boy t' hell an' back 'fore I ever gave him over t' Hector. The waxin' moonlight be pale an' cold, not like the spreadin' sunrise over Tortuga's waves...

"What came between you and my father, Jack?" He pants. "You were friends once, what happened?"

Bill betrayed me. Left me t' die like all th' rest. Nothin' more than a bleedin', blackhearted pirate, whose own son be better off believin' him dead. I smile grimly, no light in me eyes, squintin' into th' morning sun. "Truth is a terrible thing, son." I tell Bill's boy. "Trust me when I say you don't want t' know."

"That's not good enough!" He yelps. "Tell me!" I ignore him.

Sharp ring o' steel. I stop. Sigh. Turn an' face him. "Is it really worth killin' over, son?"

His voice be tremblin', but his grip be sure. "Gibbs feels compelled to tell me something...but gives you the chance. And that tells me you're better off facing me, Jack, than to have your back turned when I learn what it is."

"Killin' me ain't gonna bring your father back, boy." I state. "An' it won't do a thing for Elizabeth."

"There's only two things it can be," He says hoarsely, tremblin' from head t' foot. "I want the truth."

A sad smile plays out on my lips. "Don't we all."

"Did you kill my father?" He say suddenly. I take a step closer, thrust up me chin an' look him square in th' eye. "Don't ask me a question, boy, unless you're willin' t' hear an honest answer."

"Did you kill my father?" He repeats, voice a hushed whisper. An' there's the rub. Did I kill him? No. But did I expose him t' a life o' freedom an' adventure, give him a taste an' love for the open sea, the thrill o' the chase, th' hunt an' spoil? Aye. I did. Did I hire on a man t' me crew when I knew full well what it'd cost his family? Aye. I didn't kill th' man...but it be me fault he turned pirate. An' whatever damnation he accrued leavin' that family behind I share in...share an' share alike.

"Did I kill your father, boy?" I ask unblinkin', starin' for a silent second into those eyes as wide as a hind's. "...No."

Disappointment. Disgust. Denial. The words tumble broken from his lips. "You knew my mother-"

I slap 'im. Hard. I hear th' smack o' bone on bone an' there be a line o' blood across me hand. He staggers back, blinkin' owlishly, wonderin' dark eyes wide more in sudden fear an' surprise than pain, staggerin' down t' one knee, that sword fallen an' forgotten from his shakin' hand. He looks up at me, amazed. "That's for questionin' your mother's honor, boy." I say harshly. "Your father wouldn't put up wi' that sort o' talk from you, son, and neither will I." He grew up without th' man, wishes desperately for some small part o' him. He's innocent, naive...and vulnerable. Talk o' his father's adventures wi' me confuses him into complacency. He's a lost sheep willin' t' follow any shepherd, all alone in th' valley o' shadows. An' thus far I've led 'im like a lamb t' th' slaughter.

The boy wipes his face wi' a bare hand, smearin' a small trickle o' blood from his nose. "Christ," I hear him whisper.

"An' I wouldn't blasphemy either, if I were you, son." I say, still standin' above him. "He'd've smacked you for that as well." His dark eyes be teary from the smartin' blow...both t' his face, an' sickened heart.

"You were wrong, boy. Wrong on both accounts. Now do you trust me or not?" I ask none too kindly.

"You're not my father." Is his brazen retort.

"Aye. I'm not." I state without blinkin'. "An' you're bloody lucky I ain't because Bootstrap Bill Turner had a backhand what would've broken your jaw. An' he'd 've swung at you, boy, same-if not harder- as he'd done anyone else."

"You're not my father, Jack." He whispers lowly. "You're not my father and you're nothing like him."

You're wrong, son. I think sadly. Because in th' end, your father left you an' your mother t' go off piratin', gave into th' call o' freedom an' a life without responsibilities nor regret. A life without you, William. Bloody well orphaned his only son wi' a woman sick wi' consumption, already dyin'. No, you're wrong, boy, because your father knew that leavin' you meant leavin' you t' die...an' so do I. An' I fully intend t' do it.

"You want t' look at your damn crew or not?" I call harshly behind me back. I hear him stand slowly. Heave a shudderin' sign an' suddenly he shoulders roughly past me on th' narrow pier, an' I watch him go.

_You're not my father and you're nothing like him._ You're right, son. I tell him. Because when you're father left you an' your mother he lived wi' th' guilt th' rest o his short life. Never could quite shake that regret...but I won't. An' when your blood's runnin' in rivers, boy, an' the Pearl be mine, I'll make damn certain you're bonnie lass gets well looked after, savvy? You're in too deep, boy. In over your head. But 'ware lest the hand what saves you from drownin' don't have plans for you o' it's own...

Fleetingly I contemplate how me past can be so dark, even in th' light o' me life's final moments. But it ain't th' beginnin' nor end o' a tale what damns a man. It be the middle. But it's too late t' go back an' change it. Too late t' do anything but listen t' irony laugh. When I would've sent th' boy t' his death, I promised meself there'd be no regrets...but at th' last moment found I couldn't stomach it. An' now that I'd trade his life for nigh anything, he be on a collision course for the hangman's noose, an' no compass nor charts in all th' world will ever persuade him from that path.

The boy keeps his promises. Like his father, once. Keeps his promises no matter how self-destructive they may turn. An' again, I think o' Bill an' Giselle, an' wonder if it might've happened differently, if chance had been kinder, fate not so cruel...I go over it a thousand times in me head, searchin' for that missin' piece what could've changed th' fate o' us all. Left Desdemona alive an' out o' Mercer's merciless hands. Spared Giselle me selfish, foolish decision t' set her up in Tortuga, doin' th' one trade she knew how. Kept me from watchin' a friend an' his family slowly drift apart, til only a son was left...

...and yet even now I'm helpless t' stop their course. Desdemona will still seek revenge for her sister, only t' be shot dead in front o' her eyes. A young girl what should've been loved an' cared for as a wife will still be subjected t' solicitation an' servitude in a goddamn pirate port. An' poor Nancy Turner'll still lose a daughter an' a husband t' die alone, abandoned, wi' no one but her young son t' ease her passin'.

_March 9th, 1727. Two weeks now we've been hidin' here in this whorehouse, earnin' the reproachful glares of every passin' sailor, an' the wonderin' giggles of the girls. They wanna know what it is we two men do in this small room together alone…_

_An' most would be disappointed t' find we only be plottin' our escape._

_I find it amusin'. Bill be revolted. But we've both been at sea long enough t' know it happens, t' know the darker side o' month long voyages, an' why it is that the Navy hires on the cabin boys so young. They're smaller, eat less, do the same work for lesser pay...an' their skin is soft, voices high like a woman's, and they're...easily persuaded. Sharp point o' a knife in a young boy's throat can be an excellent argument for acquiescence, even in an act he hoped never t' partake in._

_An' that treatment t' children o' any age'll make any man worthy o' that name sick. I've been t' enough houses of ill-repute that I kin turn a blind eye an' stomach it…but I be firm about what goes on aboard me ship. I won't hire a lad under 16 if I kin help it. By then he's no longer naïve, an' too strong t' be preyed upon on th' open sea. Same for any girl o' any age. The sea be the province o' men…an' unfortunately for whatever mother's son find himself alone aboard a ship, often as not it be populated wi' bad ones._

_Bill tosses me a parcel o' grub: figs, dates, cold lamb. I eat hungrily. "What you find?" I ask around hasty mouthfuls of mutton._

_"That there's a bastard downstairs wantin' t' sell me a boy young as my son." He say darkly. "God. I can't wait t' leave." '_

_I shrug. "You do know where we are, Bill. All sorts of squeamish sodomy and otherwise unpleasant not-niceties take place between these walls. Best not t' think on it, mate."_

_He sigh. Shake his head. Every second o' every minute o' every day been wearin' on him. He turns a disapprovin' eye-an' ear- when he kin, but some things hit 'im too close t' the heart…an' some o' them don't heal._

_"Someday you'll be a father." He says gruffly. "Then you'll understand."_

_"Beggin' your pardon, I won't." I say. "Had scarlet fever as a lad, Bill. I ain't never gonna sire children." Not that it's ever mattered t' me. A man wi' a wife an' child's got no freedom, moored like a ship t' a pier, forever stuck at port when she should be sailin' free upon the sea…_

_He be silent. "I'm sorry, Jack."_

_"For what?" I ask. "What would I do wi' a son? Carry on th' family name? I get into this business t' redeem me name an' I've gone and made it worse. Twice pirate, now, mate. Any son I'd have be better off without me as a father."_

_"It's a shame, Jack." He say sadly. "I think you'd make a good father. Sight better than me. Lad was scarce two when I left, man. Doubt he'll even know me."_

_No point consolin' 'im he had t' seek a fortune elsewhere t' pay his debt, or risk th' prisons til it could be repaid. From what little he speaks his Nan be a sickly lass, an' the cold winter air don't much agree wi' her. An' a man like Bill'll spoil his woman like a king his favorite steed. Don't have no doubts Nan Turner'd be dead an' that lad too if it weren't for his stubbornness. Poor folk often accept the inevitable, leavin' loved ones t' die when fallen ill. Not Bill Turner. The man's gone deeper an' deeper into debt, an' a place aboard the Wench offered him a chance t' pay it back…_

_…and now that chance, like his share in th' profits, be gone. An' all because o' me. I clear me throat. Change th' subject._

_"Speaking o' home, did you-"_

_"Found a captain looking to take on a crew. Seems he lost some men around Good Hope."_

_"Where he be headed?"_

_"Scotland, if you'd believe it." Just a tiny hint o' longin' in his voice. He be thinkin' of that Nan Turner, no doubt in me mind._

_"Well, it ain't the new world, but it's a sight better 'an here." For now I must get as far away from Fort James as possible. Surely notices have started going up across the empire for Captain Jonathan Teague, branded an' wanted for piracy…but th' farther from here I be the less likely the Navy'll be searchin'._

_"Aye. That it is."_

_"Well then," I mutter, flickin' crumbs from me shirt. "You run along an' tell said Captain he's got two crew members…that is, if you're goin' back t' Scotland, as well." I say it wi' such a straight, smug face he ain't got no choice but flush crimson._

_That Bill Turner, I mutter to meself as he leaves. Good man or not, he's as human as the rest o' us. He's just missin' the forest for th' sake o' a tree...._

_Bill ain't back yet. The afternoon wears on. I pace the small cell, sticky an' hot wi' sweat, tryin' t' ignore th' gigglin' outside th' door. Giselle spread rumors while I was here last, no doubtin' it, an' every girl in th' place is itchin' for th' sight o' me. An' I've been lettin' them have a fair share more than that…_

_…but Bill's out riskin' his neck for me. Again. It'd be a discourtesy t' his courage an' every misplaced sense o' decency he has t' lay a hand on a one of 'em after yesterday. But I long for the distraction, yearn for a woman's soft skin and warm touch because here I am, for two weeks now, trapped like a prisoner t' my past, pacin' th' very room where Giselle an' I shared far too many stolen hours._

_I was cruel t' the girl. Cruel t' let her think I'd take her away from this mess. An' she was too young, too naïve, too innocent t' know any different. An' when Bill went t' her, sayin' me life was in danger…even then she came for me. Brave, brave, beautiful lass._

_…And a goddamned fool. Bill's asked. And not a man has had sight nor sound o' her since the night o' me escape. I try t' pretend it bothers me as much as him…but it would taste a lie. She was a whore. A wench. Like hundreds I've had in the past, like the many I'll have again. And yet…_

_Yet I can't quite shake me guilt._

_But while I've been thinkin' the air's gone unnaturally quiet. Light laughter's faded, all noise in the hallway's ceased. An' I sense a presence, a presence standin' silent behind that slatted door…_

_An' there only be one reason for that: EITC. I be trapped. No means o' escape. We've tried for days t' silently remove the bars around th' window but t' no avail. All I kin think is that Bill's been caught, or he's been followed…an' now they've come for me._

_"I've got a wife and a young son at home, Jack, and God help you if you're the reason he grows up fatherless." I hope t' God that somehow me mate's escaped, stowed away on a passin' ship or th' like...Bill wi' his young wife an' little lad back home..._

_There be a set o' pistols and cutlasses hidden jus' behind th' bed…make that one. Bill's got the other. Slowly I drawn 'em out, slink down th' wall t' the door. An' I wait. Wait for it t' open, like all prison doors, swingin' t' the inside…_

_I'll take the first in the legs. From there? I'll trust t' luck. An' fate. An' fortune. T's not a bad death, I say, fightin'. Sight better than hangin'…an' isn't irony smilin' that Jonathan Edward Teague, labeled the bastard son o' a buccaneer, and a branded pirate should be shot t' death in a brothel off th' coast o' Africa._

_God forgive me for what I've done, I pray. And let me take as many o' these bastards wi' me as I can. Amen._

_That door swing slowly open, an' me arm be raisin' and th' harsh click o' a cockin' pistol ring loudly in me ears-_

Bell rings again. Startles me. Startles me as bad as the face standin' on th' other side o' that door so many years ago: _Giselle-?_

Another quarter o' an hour gone. Time, like sand, slippin' through me fingers like th' funnel o' an hourglass, never t' return. Old Irony's smilin' again, I know, leerin' at me fate. That I should be born the honest son of a noble man, too good an' unblinded by prejudice t' discriminate against th' dark woman his travels chanced upon. That my father, once a decent man, saw fit t' marry her an' bring her back t' England. That his family should threaten t' annul th' matrimony, send her away, poison her, poison me, disinherit him…and he should laugh at their threats like the devil may care, an' choose a life o' piracy t' support us. How ironic that I should curse him, scorn him, and when the chance came take upon myself an endeavor t' purge his name…and how bitter, how bilous that in the end, our so-called sins should be the same. For here I stand, twenty years later, branded a pirate, about t' hang for an act o' compassion.

…and how hateful to me now that his should prove as thankless as mine. For I saved strangers…he a son.


End file.
